Portrait of a Mathematician as a Young Man
by SongofHerself
Summary: Series of one-shots depicting the life of Pythagoras, both before and after he meets Jason. Rated T for domestic violence.
1. Scars

Scars

Thankfully no one ever asked him about the scars.

There was two of them, long and stiff. One ran from his collarbone to his hip, the other across his shoulders. They were thick and pink, raised ridges on the otherwise flawless porcelain of his skin. They didn't hurt anymore, though they had for a long time. They weren't even stiff in the winter. All they were was reminders. Reminders of a time long past. Reminders of the secret he had lived with for so long.

He remembered vividly the day he had gotten his scars. He was ten, and his father was drunk.

It was no surprise that, his father being drunk. For as long as Pythagoras could remember his father had been in a constant state of insobriety. His father consumed alcohol the way that other men consumed oxygen, frequently and in abundance. They would have been well off, Pythagoras reckoned, if their father didn't spend every copper on ale. His father was a respected carpenter, his mother a weaver. Pythagoras ran errands for merchants and delivered messages. And still, they starved.

It was a chilly day in winter, the day he got his scars. The wind blew from the north, cutting to the bone. Fog rolled in off the bay, penetrating the mainland. The night was dark and winter solstice was fast approaching. It was a cold night in their small home. A small fire, fueled by sawdust and shavings from their father's shop burned in the fireplace, doing little to penetrate the chill that had settled over the island of Samos. Pythagoras was minding his brother, entertaining the three year old Arcus as his mother tried to add substance to the icy water that was to serve as their supper. Their father was, as usual, drunk.

He sat in a corner, staring stupidly into the fire, a flagon clutched in one hand. He had been thrown from the tavern that evening for starting a brawl. He had staggered home in a state of terrifying calm, and settled himself in the corner. So far he had been silent, not even acknowledging his wife and two sons. Afraid to remind the patriarch of their presence, Pythagoras and his family remained silent. As the moon rose, an uneasy peace descended over the house.

For a few blissful moments Pythagoras permitted his mind to wander through sunny fields of hope. Perhaps his father was getting better. Perhaps the gods had heard his mother's prayers, and his father had stopped drinking, or at the least had turned from a mean drunk to some other, kindlier type of drunk. His father wasn't bad, honestly. On the rare, extremely rare, occasions when he was almost sober he was very amiable. He would tell Arcus stories of his time as a soldier, and he wouldn't hit Pythagoras and his mother so much. During those times his mother smiled, and Pythagoras walked on air. There was jokes, food, smiles. And for brief moments, Pythagoras' skin was not mottled with bruises.

Pythagoras rolled the ball across the room. His arm ached from the motion. Angry red bruises circled his wrists, and yellow, purple, black spots dotted his arms like a disease. Arcus, the only unbruised member of the family, with a happy baby smile on his face, tottered after it. For a moment they almost seemed like a happy family, then Arcus stumbled and fell, banging his head on the ground. He looked up at them all, surprised. For a moment it seemed as if he would go about his life, letting peace prevail. Then, turning an unhappy shade of maroon, he screwed up his face, and began to wail.

In a flash, the uneasy peace evaporated like fog on a summer morning. His mother looked up, petrified as her husband lurched at her.

"Stupid woman!" he yelled, his words slurring together "Can't you keep a hand on your son?"

His mother flinched as he lunged toward her, his fist raised.

"Stop." Pythagoras grabbed his father's arm, pulling him away from his mother "It wasn't her fault."

"Don't you touch me boy," His father roared, turning on Pythagoras "I'm your father-"

Pythagoras tuned out the rest of the well known speech as his stomach descended to the very depths of Hades. His father was going to beat him again, he just knew it. He wasn't sure if he would survive another beating, he already hurt all over. The very act of breathing was painful.

"Listen to me!" his father screamed, shaking him violently "You never listen."

"I-I'm sorry." Pythagoras stammered "I am listen-"

"Don't lie!" he shouted, effortlessly flinging his diminutive son across the room. Pythagoras hit the wall with a dull thud, briefly seeing sparks. His father staggered across the room and grabbed their sole knife from the small table.

"Galen don't." his mother grabbed his father, pulling him back "Galen, he's only a boy-"

His father slapped her, sending her backwards, and advanced on Pythagoras.

Pythagoras curled up small, protecting his head with bird thin arms. He drew his knees in to his chest, tucking them underneath his chin. He tried to be brave, tried to be still. He wouldn't give his father the satisfaction of seeing him shake with fear.

A rough hand grabbed him by the hair, dragging him into a sitting position. Pythagoras found himself face to face with his father, staring into wide blue eyes, so much like his own, but bloodshot with wine. "I will teach you not to lie to me." his father growled, blowing stinking wine breath into his face.

Pythagoras felt his resolve dissipate as the rusted knife approached his shivering. "Please-" he begged.

His father smiled, and slashed across his chest.

Pythagoras woke up warm, which was unusual. He also didn't know where he was, which was less unusual.

The room was white, white and narrow. Drying plants hung from the ceiling, complimenting the living herbs that grew in pots on the windowsill. There was a narrow table, covered in bottles and bowls, littered with parchment.

A familiar kindly hand stopped him as he tried to sit up "Rest Pythagoras"

"M-mother?" he choked out "Mother?"

"Ssh," she said "It's okay, just rest."

"Where am I?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"You're with the healer," she said "You've been here for a few days, everything is fine."

"Mother," he tried to sit up. They couldn't afford a healer, what where they doing? His life wasn't worth this.

"Rest Pythagoras." she said firmly, pushing him down "Everything is fine, I've taken care of it."

He laid back, but couldn't help worrying "Mother-" he began

"It's fine." she said firmly"You don't have to take care of everything Pythagoras, you are just a child."

He pursed his lips in frustration. "The knife-" he said.

"I've gotten rid of it." she said firmly "We'll get by without for now. I won't have your father take my children from me."

There was a stirring in the room, and the healer, a short, bearded, white haired man, came up to stand behind his mother. He put a kindly hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled.

"Hello young man." he said "It's good to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare."

Pythagoras shifted uneasily.

"I need to go." his mother said, standing up. "You'll watch over him?"

"I'll keep him out of trouble." the healer said. " Don't worry Parthia, I'll take care of him."

"Thank you Hippocrates." she said, embracing him "You don't know how much this means to me."

He smiled at her, touching her face "Don't worry about it." he whispered "He's safe with me."

She gave him one last look, then fled.

Hippocrates looked lost for a moment, then resumed his mask of pleasantness. He came over to his bedside "You were lucky." he said "Your father missed anything vital. You'll have scars, but you'll heal."

Pythagoras shifted again. "Thank you." he said.

Hippocrates smiled at him sadly "Don't worry about it young man." he said "I would never turn your mother away. She's an amazing woman." Hippocrates grabbed a bowl from the table. "I need to examine your wounds," he explained "Just to make sure I've gotten rid of the infection-"he said. He lifted the blanket. Pythagoras began to shiver as the cold air swept across his naked skin. He looked down to see an angry red scab running the length of his chest.

Hippocrates examined the scab, applying cold goop from the bowl to his chest.

"What are you doing?" Pythagoras asked

"Trying to draw out the infection." Hippocrates murmured "You see these red streaks? There was something on that knife, and its gotten into your blood and infected you. It's a good thing that your mother brought you to me, or you might have died."

"What?" Pythagoras asked, panic building in his chest

"Don't worry about it." Hippocrates said "You're fine now."

Pythagoras didn't feel fine. His father had almost killed him. He might have died.

"You'll be fine." Hippocrates said "You'll live for your father to bruise another day. But you'll stay here until you're well, and after that I can teach you my art. Would you like that?"

Pythagoras nodded eagerly.

"Good" Hippocrates said "We'll make a fine healer of you someday."

"Thank you." Pythagoras said.

"Sure," Hippocrates waved him off "Anything for Parthia's son."


	2. Of Wine and Water

Of Wine and Water

Pythagoras wandered the streets of Atlantis, and, for the thousandth time, repressed the need to curse.

It wasn't that the day was hot, or that the people were rude, it was that he was completely lost, and that was not a feeling he enjoyed.

Quixotically, he had hoped that after a week of hard traveling Atlantis would welcome him with open arms. That as he escaped the darkness of his former life, and plunged into the bustling urban shelter of the city the city would welcome him back. That Atlantis would whisper hello with good fortune and easy acquaintances. That the gods would smile on him. That work would be easy to find, lodgings would be cheap, time would pass slowly, and solitude, above all, solitude would be plenteous. For what was possibly the first time in his life, there was no proper plan, only run. Run anywhere. It didn't matter where he went, so long as Samos was left far behind. He had come to Atlantis on a stupid whim, blinded by hope and delusion.

Still, anywhere was better than Samos, he reasoned, passing what seemed to be the twelfth olive merchant. Even sleeping on the streets, wandering around lost, and feeling the constant urge to swear at everything was better than spending his life with the people who saw him as little more than the timid drunkard's boy. He would do anything to escape their scorn and pity.

His throat ached as he swallowed. He was so thirsty that the mud puddles steaming on the streets were beginning to look attractive. If he could just find a tavern, or a wayhouse of some sort. He had a few coppers left. A drink would be nice, not to mention he could ask the proprietor about proper lodgings in the city. And, if he'd learned anything in his eighteen years, it was that taverns were excellent places for picking up patients.

He wandered for at least another hour, growing steadily more frustrated as he wound through the dusty streets. Eventually, just has he was ready to give up, he stumbled upon it, The Clever Tumbler.

Feeling mildly nervous, as this was all too familiar, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. A tapestry of familiar smells assaulted him as he plunged into the musty dank. It was comforting, he mused darkly, to know that drunks in Atlantis smelled and acted exactly the same as drunks on Samos. It was almost as if he was a child again, coming to help his father home after a long day of drinking, and a short night of quarreling. There, in the corner, was the two leering men, making lewd comments at anyone, male or female, that passed. At the table next to them were the gamblers. The big, strong men who controlled the game, and the thin, desperate men who came to lose to them. Next to them, the token female. A woman of such poor and loose a character that no one minded her being in the bar anymore, despite the fact that she practically lived there. And then, right in the middle, in the prime of the room, was the king.

The king was an interesting position in the society of a bar. Back on Samos it had been taken by Pythagoras' father, the local tavern's best customer. Everybody liked this man, he was witty and entertaining when drunk, but no one so much as the proprietor, who kept a careful tally of the man's debts and infringements, waiting until the day when he would collect. Pythagoras knew, he had spent at least a month hiding from the man who owned the tavern on Samos after his father's death. Despite the fact that the man knew they had nothing, he had still insisted on collecting, taking everything they had, including their mother into debt slavery.

Pythagoras edged up the room, squirming with distaste. He would avoid the centre of the room. He changed his mind. He would not stay in the tavern for long, he would seek work elsewhere.

"Bread, and some water please." Pythagoras murmured when the barmaid came around, asking what he wanted "And some grapes."

The barmaid smiled at him, fluttering her eyelashes. Pythagoras felt his stomach plunge in what could only be described as mild terror. If she started flirting with him he would faint, he just knew it.

Thankfully, she bustled away, leaving Pythagoras to his uneasy peace. He didn't want to deal with women, not today. He had not gotten nearly enough sleep for that.

As he surveyed the room he allowed himself to wonder if he was doing the right thing. If leaving Arcus alone on Samos had been the right decision. The boy was eleven, Pythagoras had been practically a man at that age, surely Arcus could manage. The fact that he and Arcus were completely different people drifted across his mind, but he dismissed it. He justified to himself, saying that he was here to earn money to free his mother from slavery. But when he was honest with himself he knew that he was really here because he needed a change of scene. He needed to get off Samos before he suffocated, and so, like the bastard he was, he abandoned his younger brother for his own pleasure. Reason 17 why Pythagoras was a terrible person.

"Bread, grapes, water, and a little cheese." the barmaid announced loudly, placing a plate and a large tankard in front of Pythagoras with a flourish. "Will there be anything else for you?" she asked sweetly, wiggling her ample bosom.

The tavern went quite as Pythagoras felt his face go up in flames. He stammered something about no, and the barmaid looked disappointed, as all the men burst out into peals of laughter, shouting insults.

"You could bring him some manhood." the king jeered "It seems like he's lost his."

Anger rose in his chest as the men of the tavern roared with laughter. "Perhaps she could bring you sobriety." Pythagoras snapped "Because at least at the end of the day I will be able to make my way home unassisted."

The king laughed "I'm sure that mummy will be pleased."

"Doubtful." Pythagoras said "But at least mine has no reason to be ashamed, unlike yours. How does your mother feel knowing she has given birth to a pig?"

"You would know." the king said "You're as pink as one."

The men laughed. "Give him a rest Hercules," one of the men yelled "He's only a boy. Don't make him cry."

Pythagoras stood up, his anger skyrocketing "Think you're some kind of hero?" he asked, stalking over to the table "Think you're a big man?"

Hercules stared at him, mirth turning to mild concern.

"It's because you are." Pythagoras said, leaning on the table, his voice deadly calm "You are a _huge_ man."

It was a moment before Hercules began to laugh. Second later, the rest of the bar followed suit.

"Sit down lad," Hercules said "I'll buy you a drink."

"No thank you." Pythagoras said stiffly "I don't drink."

"Sit anyways." Hercules replied. You're new here, you could use a friend, and I could use a laugh."

Wondering exactly what had just happened, Pythagoras collected his food, and sat.

"To new friends." Hercules yelled, raising his tankard.

"To new friends." Pythagoras echoed, and, together, their took a drink. Hercules of wine, Pythagoras of water.

**A/N After yesterday I figured the story should take a lighter turn. Please tell me how I did with a review.**


End file.
